Dark Night, Fair Night Poem by Blake Nox Gama

I'm trouble, Miss. How do you like your troublesome
Boy with eyes of dusk, occult crafts and words of light?
I'm trouble, pain, antithesis, oxymoron, paradox and the low
Rhyme a breeze whispered in high-winter. I'm a fight

In gray halls, broken silence, a mountain in reverse
Hustling leaves, bitting cold, insanity in a verse.
I'm trouble, Mistress. How do you like your volatile, ethereal
Boy gliding through lamp-lit streets, flickering like a flame in a candle?

I'm trouble, Madam. Born out of chaos, raised in desolate,
Hidden light... words falter and waves crash—
And I know, madam. It's getting late, sorry for the trouble, I know it's late.
And she as always, sounded gentle, gleeful, kind, piercing, harsh

When she said: " Trouble you may be, and dark sure you are
But never I saw more lofty vision, more radiant light than when you're bare.